A Butterfly's Typhoon
by Nicole Berman
Summary: GS. 1st in Butterfly series. Old habits are the hardest to break; Sara finds out firsthand.


[Every step of the way, we walk the line.

Your days are numbered.  So are mine.]

I had to quit him cold turkey.  There was no other way for me to leave.  I'm not like him.  I couldn't pull away like he did, distancing myself with emotional barriers and complicated refusals to invitations that fall like poison-tipped arrows into a woman's heart.

* * *

[Time is piling up; we struggle and we scrape,

all boxed in nowhere to escape.]

Grissom used to wonder what it would be like when he lost his hearing.  He'd spent hundreds of hours listening to favored classical pieces like Mascagni's Cevalleria Rusticana, trying to memorize each note, in preparation for the stifling silence.  He never wondered *if* he'd go deaf - that was up to Fate, or God, or the Easter Bunny, for all he knew, and Gil Grissom tried never to waste energy on things that were beyond his sphere of control.  Instead, he focused on readying himself for the worst, absorbing like a sponge the sounds and sensations he'd miss.  He listened intently to the laughter of his neighbor's toddler as she pushed the little boy on a swing out in the courtyard; 'Higher, Mama!'  He focused on the feeding call of the yellow-billed cuckoos in the warming desert dawn and saved it, pressed firmly between the pages of the scrapbook of his brain.  As a result of this intense auditory experience, Grissom began to notice sounds he hadn't heard consciously in years - the hum of the fluorescent lights, the slow drip of the coffee maker in the break room, the exquisitely soft strains of the fiddle floating out of Sara's headphones as she sat hunched over paperwork.

The past few months had caused a shift in his perception, forcing a realization upon him that he neither wanted nor appreciated: the silence he wallowed in now was not a physical deafness but an emotional void he, himself, had drawn on the canvas of promise with a pencil of fear.  The lab was destitute without the cadence that was singularly Sara Sidle, the halls bereft despite the muted ring of telephones and clamor of voices.  Even as he allowed himself to think these thoughts, Grissom had to laugh - not out of humor, but out of the stark serenity that washes over someone who clearly has no choice left in the matter before him.  As Nick would say, he had fucked up but *good*, and, louder and more clearly than anything else, Grissom heard the silent reprimands of the remainder of his team.

* * *

[The city's just a jungle, more games to play,

I'm trapped in the heart of it trying to get away.

I was raised in the country, been working in the town.

I've been in trouble since I set my suitcase down.]

"Are you *sure*?" she asked again, eyeing me over the rim of her glass.

I smiled thinly as I shook my head, the condensation cool against my hands as I squeezed the life out of my beer.  I felt like some strange caricature of myself, listening to my voice from outside my head.  "I'm not sure of anything anymore, Cath.  I just know that I can't keep doing it this way.  I've been making a fool of myself for the last three years; you know it, I know it, and *he* knows it."

Catherine shook her head again, but I saw it in her eyes.  She knew I was right.  "Do what you've gotta do, kid," she said, and a smile slipped across her lips.  She seemed almost proud.

"I never should've come."  I hadn't intended to voice the thought but it made itself known despite me.

"What are you talking about?  Of course you should have.  You did the right thing.  We needed you, and you stepped up."  Catherine reached for the pitcher and refilled both our glasses.

"I didn't come because you needed me," I chuckled, sinking back against the cracked leather of the booth.  "I came because he asked me to.  Because..."

"Because you thought maybe the two of you would pick up where you left off?" Catherine suggested.  I wasn't surprised that she knew.  I guess I'd always figured that if he'd told anyone, he'd told Catherine about the disaster we called a romance.  I suppose, now, that I knew from the start we were doomed - an expert in town to give a week-long seminar and a novice criminalist who thought the man walked on water.

I spent five nights in the hotel restaurant, listening to his stories about maggots and corpses, devouring his every word as his entomological wonders would feast on flesh, and asking myself how one man could be so intelligent, so handsome, so sexy - and so single.

I spent the sixth night in his bed.  I wish I could say I remember more than that, but all I'm left with after more than ten years is a faint, safe feeling, and a genuinely sated spirit.  I slept for nine hours that night, that much I do remember, more than most nights before and more than any night since.

Knowing Catherine was right, I simply shrugged, taking a long swallow of my beer, and cringing as it hit my stomach.  "I guess ... maybe ... I hoped ... hell, I don't know what I hoped," I grumbled, unable to decide if I was more angry with him for not having changed, or with myself for wanting him to change.

* * *

[I got nothing for you, had nothing before,

don't even have anything for myself anymore.

Sky's full of fire and the rain is pouring down.

There's nothing you can sell me, so I'll see you around.]

I kept trying to break free.  It sounds melodramatic but I was caught in the pull of the mystery.  Grissom's got a gravity field around him that sucks women like me, and Catherine, in and holds us there.  I worked side-by-side with him for three years, shared dozens of breakfasts, and still knew next to nothing about the man.  He studied people before turning to evidence.  He's fascinated by bugs.  He likes classical music, Pink Floyd and roller coasters.  He's got a thing for math geeks. 

Who hurt him so badly that he couldn't even take me out to dinner?  There were so many moments when the shield seemed to fall away, and I caught a peek at the Grissom I first met.  I'd turn my head, just a fraction of an inch, and catch him staring at me.  I'd let myself forget where we were, and I'd smile.  Then he'd smile, and I'd feel the tingle start to creep up my spine and the breath rush from my lungs.  My smile widened and that's when the gates came crashing down with a near-audible clang.  His defenses were back up and suddenly, he was all business again.

I let him handcuff me with duct tape.  I'm not a naturally trusting person, especially with men, but I knew he'd never hurt me - not like that.  That was my first clue that something was terribly wrong, that I trusted him more than was healthy.  I opened a side of myself I shouldn't have; I cried in front of him.  *Twice*.

I kept trying to leave.  The leave of absence I requested wasn't a break from work, it was an escape from my life.  It was me asking Grissom's permission to shatter the notion that if we weren't supervisor and employee, he might consider exploring another level to our relationship and set me free from my fantasies without reservations.  But I didn't get my leave, and I didn't quit, as I'd threatened.  I stayed.  I'm a sucker for a mystery.

* * *

[All my powers of expression and thoughts so sublime,

could never do you justice, reason, or rhyme.

There's only one thing that I did wrong,

I stayed in {Sin City} a day too long.]

Otosclerosis.  Defined as a genetic abnormality of the ear, which causes new bone growth, immobilizing the stapes and causing hearing loss, often completely curable with surgery.  Who would've guessed that such a sterile word could literally make me see red?  The blood rushes to my head and my heart pounds when I think about it.  I wonder if he knows how much he hurt me.  Probably not; Grissom seems not to notice much about the world around him if he can't collect, label and process it.

He didn't tell me.  He didn't tell Nick, Warrick, or Brass, either; he told Catherine.  But he didn't tell *me*.  He didn't trust me with that information.  Logically, I can't fault him for it, I suppose.  Grissom's an intensely private person, and he's known Catherine longer than he's known any of the rest of us.  But I'm not supposed to be part of that "us".  He loved me once, or said he did.  That should've meant *something*.  It should've meant telling me about the surgery before I had to hear about it from Greg.

[The devil's in the alley, the mule kicking in the stall.

Say anything you wanna, I've heard it all.]

"She's got seniority.  I don't have to justify my actions to you, Sara.  I didn't think you'd want to know.  I didn't feel comfortable ... that is, I didn't want to ... I'm your supervisor.  I have a responsibility to the team.  I didn't want to let you down."

Well, fearless leader, I have news for you.  You did.

* * *

[I was thinking about the things that she said.]

*"But you have to deal with it. You have to deal with it first. You have to deal with it before it… goes away."*

Grissom told himself that Catherine was wrong, that what she said didn't apply to him.  His pain, on the rare occasions he acknowledged it, wasn't from one broken heart.  It was a thick scab, built from layers of disappointment and rejection, cultivated after years of survival in a world he was certain he was never meant to inhabit.

"My sweet boy".  She used to sign out all three words, right after the disease took her hearing.  Over time, as his mother grew used to the language, she gave him his own nickname.  She'd form her fingers into the sign for the letter "G", touch her middle finger to her chest, then turn it away.  Always in favor of making him learn things on his own, Betty Grissom refused to tell her son what the sign meant.  Many times, she'd speedily signed his full name in exasperation, and he could almost hear her voice.  *"Gilbert Jerome Grissom, you take that bug back outside where it belongs!"*  So although he recognized the "G", he had to check the thick American Sign Language dictionary before he realized his mother was calling him "sensitive Gil".  Unfortunately for him, the nickname stuck.

"Gil!" she'd exclaim, her hands flying as the smile sprang to her face.  Visiting her was the best part of his week.  He brought her food that the nursing home wouldn't allow - cheeseburgers and French fries were usually among the contraband.  They sat in her room, taking turns eating and talking.  Grissom's hands were always sore on Monday from the Sunday workout, but since his face was sore from smiling, he called it even.

Then came the Sunday when he had to disappoint her, something he felt he hadn't done in nearly forty years.  Not knowing the sign for "asshole", Grissom settled for telling her that he had done something terribly wrong.  Fifteen minutes passed in silence as Grissom told his mother the story, beginning to end - how selfish he'd been when he called Sara in from San Francisco, knowing if he asked, she'd jump; how badly he'd treated her when she returned his obvious crush; how much he wanted to beg her to stay, to say anything that might make her reconsider leaving; how he was risking the integrity of the lab by letting her go.  Grissom may seem oblivious to the world around him, but in truth, he sees, remembers and analyzes just about everything. He just doesn't let on.

Betty let the silence linger, reaching out to brush the dampness off her son's cheek before she spoke.  "Integrity of the lab, my ass," his mother said disparagingly, obviously more familiar with signed curses than her son.  "You're afraid of losing her.  My sensitive Gil," she signed, her face coordinating with the gentler movements of her fingers, "you love her, don't you?"  Grissom's silence was response enough for the woman who had helped him learn to walk, then watched with pride as he took off running on his own path.  "So tell her."

"It's not that simple, Mom."

"Don't give me that garbage.  For forty years, you've been letting the ghost of your father run your life.  He was an *asshole*, Gil."  Grissom made a mental note of the sign and shook his head.  His mother was the only eighty-five year old he knew with the mouth - or hands, rather - of a sailor.  "He couldn't handle this," Betty said, gesturing to her useless ears.  "You've still got hope," she signed rapidly.  "And Sara's not your father.  Tell her."

"I have other reasons besides him.  I just can't," Grissom signed wearily, sorry he'd told her, but feeling slightly better for having gotten the whole story out.

"You can; you're choosing not to," Betty scoffed.

"Fine, I choose not to."

"Then you're an asshole, too."

* * *

[I was dreaming I was sleeping in your bed.]

Grissom found himself tossing and turning every day, unable to sleep as thoughts disturbed what little peace his solitude afforded him.  Every morning, he ended up on the couch, listening to music as he tried to sort through the jumble in his mind.  Reality was setting in; in two weeks, Sara would be gone, and her replacement would join their team.  He thought back three years, to Holly's death, and couldn't imagine ever finding someone so perfect as Sara to replace her.  She was honest, hard-working and dedicated to her job above all else.  And dedicated to him, Grissom realized, if he were going to be honest.  No matter how he responded, she stuck by him - until now.

He had realized too late that not telling her about his operation had been a mistake, but he couldn't risk it.  They wouldn't know for another few months whether it had been completely successful, and if he were going deaf, Grissom knew he had to start the process of withdrawing as soon as possible.  He couldn't face the pity in their eyes if they knew.  He couldn't risk becoming a burden - or worse, being left behind.  He'd had to trust Catherine, because she'd had to run the lab while he was in the hospital, but even that had been excruciating.

The dreams were the worst part.  They alternated between a suffocating silence where his terrified cries for help went unheard, and nightmares.  Nightmares where he was holding Sara, stroking her hair, and she was smiling, but then she pulled away and screamed.  He saw the reflection of himself in her eyes.  His ears were deformed, hideous; soon his whole body began to morph into a stooped, growling monster.  Sara pushed at him, calling him "disgusting", forcing him to retreat, until he felt his footing give, and he tumbled backwards over a cliff, feeling only relief that she wouldn't let the monster go free.

* * *

[Walking through the leaves falling from the trees,

feel like a stranger nobody sees.]

I was lucky to get an interview.  With the glut of newly graduated criminalists flooding the market, I thought it would be more difficult to find a lab in need of a Level 3 CSI, who came with a higher price tag and more sophisticated requirements than a freshman.  Being back in California was unnerving at first.  After staying so long in Las Vegas, I wasn't used to the dearth of neon lights and the stretch of unspoiled beach that greeted me as I drove my rental car to the Long Beach PD Headquarters.

The supervisor of the day shift was polite and efficient - she was also a woman, three points in her favor.  She explained the duties of the position, which were considerably more focused than the job I was doing with Grissom's team.  I'd be leading a team of three experts in materials analysis.  

She took me on a tour of the facilities, and I watched the routine, the lab rats going about their business as if I didn't exist.  The supervisor introduced me to a few, who glanced up from their work with a friendly nod or a gesture of welcome.  The sub-supervisor I'd be replacing was out on assignment with his team, but I was assured that we'd be introduced at the second interview.  It didn't sound like my dream job, but I thanked her for her time and expressed the hope that they would call me back for that re-interview.  I couldn't tell from her expression whether that was even a possibility.

I showed myself out, wondering why this lab felt so different from my own, and then it struck me.  Here, I was a shadow.  There was no, "Hey, Sara, how's it goin'?".  No Greg, leaning out of his glass cage to grin and throw me a compliment.  "Double S, nice work on the stripper case last week.  Nailed the perp's ass with the trace you got from his shoes."  Nick wasn't here to interrupt me on my way to the bathroom with a question about a wood fragment that couldn't wait and meant my bathroom break had to.

It wasn't home; but then, neither was home anymore.

* * *

[So many things we never will undo.

I know you're sorry, well, I'm sorry too.

Some people will offer you their hand, and some won't.

Last night I knew you, tonight I don't.]

"Sara, I..."  He trailed off and sighed.

I stood motionless, arms crossed over my chest.  He wasn't changing my mind, and I made sure my body language told him, because my voice threatened to give out if I tried to speak.  My mouth wanted to beg him to make me stay, to give me a reason not to walk away.

"Sara..." Grissom began again.  My name on his lips was almost too much for me to take.  It was hard enough working beside him and not being able to touch him the way I wanted, the way I think he wanted; not seeing him at all would be murder on me.  The only thought that kept me from staying was that he probably wouldn't notice my absence once I'd left.  "I don't know where to start."

"Eleven years ago," I prodded, hating the bitterness I heard in my voice.  I'd never been the kind of woman to let a soured affair make her angry, yet here I was, mourning the end of something that never really began.  "Start there."

"You mean ... the seminar?" Grissom asked, and I nodded.  "Sara, that was - well, as you said, it was eleven years ago.  You can't still be ..."

"Can't still be what?" I interrupted.  "Feeling angry, hurt, rejected?"

"Interested."  He said it so quietly that if I hadn't been intently listening to every word he said, as always, I would've missed it.

I could only stare at him and ask in disbelief, "You know you're oblivious, right?"

"I'm sorry."  I think it was the second time I'd heard Grissom use that word.

"What happened?" I asked, hoping once more that I'd force his walls down.

"I just ... I didn't know what to do."  Grissom's eyes, owlish behind his glasses, were as plaintive as his voice.  I began to believe that he truly didn't know how to live with people.  I understand that.  Hell, I *am* that.  But there was something about him, lots of things, that made me want to try.  He obviously couldn't say the same.

"You held me," I said simply, softly.

"That's not enough."  He shook his head, and I thought I saw a hint of something unfamiliar in his eyes.  Was that self-disgust?  Did he realize what he'd done?  Too little, too late.

"Funny," I replied, turning to leave.  "It was for me."

* * *

[Well, I got here following the southern star.

I crossed that river just to be where you are.

There's only one thing that I did wrong,

I stayed in {Sin City} a day too long.]

I took one last walk down the strip.  I walked until my legs were weak, past the familiar sights I'd come to love over the years.  Past the Bellagio, where Nick's call girl friend was involved in a scuffle a while back.  Past the Monaco, where Warrick was gambling when Holly Gribbs died, which brought me to Vegas, which brought me back to Grissom, who brought me here tonight.  Keep walking, Sara.  Past Caesar's, the wedding chapels, the bail bondsmen, the Mirage, where Hank took me on our last date before I found out he was using me to cheat on his girlfriend.  Keep walking.  Past the Aladdin, past the tourists, past the last three years of my life.  Maybe I thought if I walked past everything, I thought I could just keep on walking, without hesitation and guilt-free, to Long Beach - to my new life.  I'd lingered too long already in this one.

[Well, my ship's been split to splinters - it's sinking fast.

I'm drowning in the poison - got no future, got no past.

But my heart's not weary - it's light and it's free.

I've got nothing but affection for those who have sailed with me.]

Those three years were, admittedly, the best of my life after college.  The excitement and the challenge of each new crime scene was a near-constant adrenaline rush, and when they faded, there was always the anticipation of the next one.  Even the victims that stay with me now - like Pam, the Jane Doe beaten and left for dead, or Kaye Shelton, the woman whose husband dumped her body in the mountains after abusing her for years - even those had moments that made me glad I'd been the one assigned to the case.

The only storm cloud was knowing that I'd never have what everyone else had - someone to come home to.  But I'd made peace with that years ago - or so I thought.  So I worked as hard as I could and collapsed into bed for four hours of relief every morning, then back to the routine.  Gym, work, run, home, do it all over again.  Days off were an anathema where I wandered aimlessly around my apartment, trying to figure out what a normal woman would do with free time.  Inevitably, I ended up back at the office, working silently down the hall from a man with the same inability to relax.  Sometimes we ordered Chinese and sat in the break room, finishing paperwork or going over cold cases.  Grissom studiously avoided any discussion of his personal life - and mine - while I doggedly attempted to find a chink in his armor.

The four members of my team became the only real friends I'd ever had.  We were geeks of a feather, thrown together by circumstance more than choice, sticking together for survival's sake.  Leaving Catherine behind was nearly as hard as leaving Grissom; I'd never had a girlfriend before her, despite my parents' best efforts.  I had never related well to my own gender.  Girls always seemed to be giggling, talking about boys and painting their fingernails, while the dirt under my own evidenced my boyish pursuit of digging for specimens to experiment on.  Catherine wasn't a girl, not in the typical definition, anyway.  She'd get right down there in the dirt with you, she never backed down from a fight, and she never met a beer she didn't like.  Leaving her was like leaving a part of myself in Las Vegas, but she had promised to call and said Lindsey was already begging for a trip to Disneyland.  I'd volunteered my as-yet-unpurchased couch for their visit, the warmth of a familiar face helping to numb the terror of change.

* * *

[Well, my clothes are wet, they're tight on my skin.

Not tight as the corner I painted myself in.

I know that fortune is waiting to be kind,

so give me your hand and say you'll be mine.]

I think I could've endured everything Grissom threw at me - turning me down when I asked him out, not telling me about his surgery, not understanding how much one simple word of kindness would've meant to me.  Everything but *that*, the final insult added to years of injury piled upon injury.

I went to his office to drop off my resignation letter.  I got the call from the Long Beach supervisor, telling me to expect an official offer letter in the next week, and asking if I was still interested in the job.  I told her I needed twenty-four hours to decide and hung up, calling Catherine immediately.

"It probably won't do any good," she said, "but give Grissom one last chance, for your own peace of mind, okay?"  I fought her for some time, but ultimately, her logic won out.  If I didn't give him the opportunity to ask me to stay, I'd drive myself crazy forever, wondering 'What if I had?"  This way, I'd have no doubts.

I stood in the doorway, the envelope stuffed in the back pocket of my cargos.  "Grissom?"  My voice cracked and I cleared my throat.  "I, uh ... we need to talk."

He peered at me over his glasses.  "What can I do for you, Sara?"

"You remember our discussion the other day - about the seminar?"

"How could I forget?"  His tone changed radically, from staid professionalism to quiet contemplation.

I kept my voice level, trying not to betray my roiling stomach.  Nothing scared me; nothing but confronting this, facing him.  "I thought about it, and ... you're right.  It was eleven years ago.  It's time for me to move on."

"I think that's ... good.  That's the right thing," Grissom said quietly.

"Me, too."  Tugging the envelope out of my pocket, I continued with as little fanfare as possible.  "This is my official letter of resignation."

"Your what?"

"I'm quitting, Grissom."  I leaned against the doorframe, my heart pounding.  I had no idea what he'd say next; the man's logic was inscrutable.

"You can't quit," he said, unabashed shock floating in his eyes.  "The lab needs you."

"You keep saying that," I replied simply, "but the fact is, this lab did fine before I arrived, and it'll be fine after I leave."

"The team won't be the same," Grissom protested.

"No, it won't," I agreed, waiting, praying he'd say it.

He leaned back, sliding his glasses off and staring at me.  "There's no way you'll stay?"

"There might be."

"What is it?" Grissom asked instantly, leaning forward onto his elbows.  "You want a raise?"

I chuckled dryly at his naiveté, swallowed around my heart, which was now in my throat, and took a deep breath.  "I love you."

"What?"

I bit back a nasty comment about his surgery, not wanting to hurt him.  "I love you," I repeated, my shaking hands stuffed into my pockets.  "Don't know why.  Maybe 'cause you're just like me.  You get me.  Whatever."  I tried to let the words slide flippantly off my tongue, but they tripped over the emotion.

"I get you?"

"What are you, a parrot?  Yeah, you get me.  Sometimes I think you don't get anything else, but you know where I'm coming from.  You know why I do what I do.  You're me, but you're also completely different.  You fascinate me."

"What do you want me to say to that?" Grissom asked, and I saw the sigh that lingered in his chest.

"What do you want to say?" I countered, feeling a sliver of possibility beginning to take over the penetrating resignation that I'd come to accept.

Grissom finally released his sigh.  "That I ... I don't know what to say."

*Of course you don't.*  The resignation took hold again and I cursed Catherine for making me do this, but she'd been right.  I had to do it, just to prove to myself that nothing had changed.  I fought the rush of nausea that tore through my center and just shook my head at him.

"I do.  Goodbye, Grissom."

* * *

[The emptiness is endless - cold as clay.

You can always come back, but you can't come back all the way.

Well, there's only one thing that I did wrong,

I stayed in {Sin City} a day too long.]

The e-mail was a surprise, to say the least.  There was no subject line, but I recognized the address immediately: G0214G@lvmpd.com.  Grissom.  Clicking it open, I expected a forward of an article on scene reconstruction or decomposition, maybe with a little note.  "Thought this might be helpful.  G."  I could never have imagined what he had actually written.

"Sara,

I hope you're enjoying California.  The lab is extremely quiet without you.  Your replacement is working out fine, although he's a little slower to catch on than you were, but then, you set the bar pretty high.  Catherine just passed my office and said to tell you, "Hi" and she misses your estrogen, whatever that means.  Nick sends his best, too.  Cath mentioned you might come back around Christmas for a visit.  It would be nice to see you while you're in town.  Maybe we can have dinner.

Also, check out the attachment.  Thought you could use this.

G."

I opened the file and had to laugh.  It was a Journal of Forensic Sciences article on new methods of identifying accelerants in arson-based homicides.  *Good old Grissom.*  I leaned back and crossed my arms, reading the e-mail again.  Maybe we can have dinner?  *What the hell?* I wondered.  Three years of innuendo, flirting and outright attempts at securing a simple dinner date with the man, and it takes me moving three hundred miles away for him to say yes.  The light bulb clicked on in my head as I nodded to myself.  It was finally safe to agree, because it wouldn't involve any kind of vulnerability on his part.  Being so far away, I wouldn't expect more than dinner.  I wouldn't expect any human interaction; I wouldn't expect more than he felt he could give.

"Grissom,

Thanks for the article.  I added it to my library - you know it took four huge boxes to get all of my books and articles up here?

As for my visit..."

I was leaning back, thinking about the next line, when my phone rang.  "Sara Sidle."

"Hello, Sara Sidle."  His voice wavered - or was it just a bad connection?

I swallowed hard.  "Hey there, Grissom.  I was just replying to your e-mail."

"Oh, really?"  It sounded like he was trying not to seem too interested.

"Yeah.  You call for a reason?"

"I just ... I missed the sound of your voice, I guess."

"You what?"  I frowned in confusion.

I heard Grissom chuckle lightly.  "You're starting to sound like me."

"I've never heard you say anything like that, that's all."

"It's the new and improved Grissom."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked, starting to get angry.

He seemed not to even hear me.  "I actually did call for a reason, Sara.  I have some news.  Bad news, I guess."

"You guess?  Is everyone okay?  It's not one of the team, is it?" I peppered him with questions as my heart leapt into my throat.

"No, no, it's not them.  It's ... it's me."  Grissom paused, and just as I was about to jump in with demands for an answer, he went on.  "The operation didn't work as well as we'd hoped.  My hearing has continued to deteriorate."

My eyes welled with tears and I was grateful he wasn't there to see it.  "Oh, my God.  Grissom..."

"No," Grissom cut me off.  "No pity," he said stiffly.  "That's not why I'm telling you.  I just thought you should know."

"You want me to come back?" I hated myself for asking, opening myself up for rejection again, but at the end of the day, this was Grissom, and if he needed me, he was all that mattered.

"I never wanted you to leave in the first place."

"All you had to do was ask me to stay," I replied evenly, my heart keeping up its jittery pace.

The silence lingered over the line and I heard his breathing, soft and light, as he thought about how to respond.  "I don't know how to do this," Grissom admitted finally.

"This?"

"Us.  You.  A relationship," he said slowly.  "I've never...really..." he trailed off.  "I'm not meant for this."

I tried to process all of this new information at once - Grissom, talking about his feelings, his impending hearing loss - which also meant the loss of his job, at least the field side that he loved so much.  The opportunity I'd waited so long for was dangling now, just out of my reach, closer than ever, but further away.  "Neither am I.  But at least I was willing to try."  I wanted to ask what had happened after the seminar, after our one night together – what had driven him away?  What had made him call me eight years later and ask me to join his team?

I heard him sigh again and I shook my head, silent as a co-worker passed my office.  When he was out of earshot, I said the only thing I could think of.  "Is it true you can kill a butterfly by trying to touch it?"

"Well, yes and no.  That myth originated from the observation that when you attempt to wipe the protective scales off a butterfly's wings, the wings are inadvertently broken and the butterfly eventually succumbs to predators.  If the scales are removed gently, the butterfly will escape unscathed.  Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering."  Hot tears welled up again and I swallowed them.  "Hey, Grissom, I've gotta go.  Shift starts in ten minutes.  I'll e-mail you later."

"Okay.  Goodbye, Sara."

"'Bye."

THE END

Feedback is better than a CSI fic with no CSI-ing.  Hit me with comments at tamakesareborn@yahoo.com.


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